I feel personally objectified by writer’s block
Every ounce of me is whirling in a hurricane within me, moving as much as I wish to move the exterior of the world
But when interior pressure is more than that of the exterior
An explosion occurs
It’s simple science
I wish these words could escape me by any other means than that of a pen
Because if something could be capped as easily as a pen can be than I do not want to hold it in the esteem as the weapon that poets use to move mountains
Let me tell you about the weapons of a poet
i. The eyes.
A poet’s eyes can graze upon one thing and create too many hypotheticals for the pen to even list
Fuck you Bic with your limited ink cartridges and pens that do not work in the rain
Because let me tell you, as any poet knows, the mind does not stop for a little water
It plunges into it, depths found in puddles you step in and the backsplash you create as a result
I can create you as a galaxy
Celestial arms and falling stars reaching outwards from the drenched epicenter of starlight, of you
Raindrops trying to kiss you in relentless pursuit as you form brand new dance moves every time you shift your shoulders to spite them.
And all of this couldn’t have formed had I not had a fucking umbrella.
ii. The mouth.
Because while ink can fade or be degraded by time
Words can cut through the temporal bounds of this existence
Creation shouldn’t not be hindered by a piece of plastic and a solution thrust onto a piece of paper
Creation is manifesting, words being flung from the mouth like tiny explosions, it’s own universe forming as they escape your lips and expand into the air, the Big Bang has nothing on this
When you grin the half circle of your smile forms a rainbow
And while I know that rainbows are actually full circles I am not surprised that when
When you open your mouth to speak
A halo expands over the sky that Saturn is jealous of
And the reason shorthand exists is Because the pen cannot catch up with the universes flowing off your vocal cords like water
iii. The heart.
Every thump a drumbeat into the song of life, crescendoing into the shouts of the earth and decrescendoing into the moments where everything speaks softly.
The ink that flows from a pen does not do so with such deliberateness
It flows uniformly, unintelligible to the whims of heart that placed it on the parchment
And every flutter is not mimicked by a flick of the wrist so you must know that the pen is dead to the poet
A cadaver limiting the will of the living when the will of the living is to raise the dead with their words
The poet’s weapons have been misconstrued by time and by those who refuse to look any further than the page
So fuck you Bic, and your ballpoints too
The spoken word of the poet cannot resound
A poet, unhindered